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Bring Da Pain

Basically, can't fuck with meI came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain

Let's go inside my astral plane

Find out my mental's based on instrumental

Records hey, so I can write monumentalMethods, I'm not the king

But niggaz is decaf I stick 'em for the cream

Check it, just how deep can shit get

Deep as the abyss and brothers is mad fish accept itIn your cross color, clothes you've crossed over

Then got totally krossed out and Kris Kross

Who da boss? Niggaz get tossed to the side

And I'm the dark side of the forceOf course it's the Method Man from the Wu-Tang Clan

I be hectic and comin' for the head piece protect it

Fuck it, two tears in a bucket, niggaz want the ruckus

Bustin' at me brush, now bust itStyles, I gets buck wild

Method Man on some shit, pullin' niggaz files

I'm sick, insane, crazy, drivin' Miss Daisy

Out her fuckin' mind now I got Martin SwayzeIs it real son, is it really real son?

Let me know it's real son, if it's really real

Something I could feel son, load it up and kill one

Want it raw deal son, if it's really realAnd when I was a lil' stereo

(Stereo)

I listened to some champion

(Champion)

I always wondered

(Wondered)

Will now I be the numba one?

(Tical! Hahaha)Now you listen to de gargon

(Gargon!)

And de gargon summary

And any man dat come test me

(Test me)

Me gwanna lick out dem brains

(It's like that)Brothers want to hang with the Meth bring the rope

The only way you hang is by the neck nigga poke

Off the set comin' to your projects

Take it as a threat, better yet it's a promiseComin' from a vet on some old Vietnam shit

Nigga you can bet your bottom dollar hey I bomb shit

And it's gonna get even worse word to God

It's the Wu comin' through sickin' niggaz for they garmentsMovin' on your left, southpaw 'em it's the Meth

Came to represent and carve my name in your chest

You can come test realize you're no contest

Son, I'm the gun that won that old Wild WestQuick on the draw with my hands on the four

Nine three eleven with the rugged rhymes galore

Check it 'cause I think not when this hip-hops like proper

Rhymes be the proof while I'm drinkin' 90 proofHuh vodka, no OJ, no straw, when you give it to me aiy, give it to me raw

I've learned when you drink absolute straight it burns

Enough to give my chest hairs a perm

I don't need a chemical blow to pull a hoe

All I need is chemical bank to pay da mo'What, basically that, Meth-Tical, ninety-four style

Word up we be hazardous car crashing, horn passing me

Northern spicy brown mustard hoes

We have to stick youIs it real son, is it really real son?

Let me know it's real son, if it's really real

Something I could feel son, load it up and kill one

Want it raw deal son, if it's really realI'll fuckin', I'll fuckin' cut your kneecaps off

And make you kneel in some staircase piss

I'll fuckin', cut your eyelids off

And feed you nuthin' but sleepin' pills

You motherfuckers

So fuck the hoe

(So)

Fuck the hoe

Songwriters

SMITH, CLIFFORD / DIGGS, ROBERT F.Published by

Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group Song Discussions is protected by U.S. Patent 9401941. Other patents pending.

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